


Civility

by worstcommander



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, Hate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worstcommander/pseuds/worstcommander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A familiar feeling, being shoved roughly against a bulkhead by a furious, half-naked woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RunnerFive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunnerFive/gifts).



“What the fuck was that?”

There was little point in welcoming Jack into her quarters, so Miranda didn’t bother to expend the effort. In the time since she’d flagged the woman’s dossier for possible mission utility, Miranda had become quite familiar with Jack’s psych profile, and she needed none of it to tell her that Jack structured her interactions towards her with a primary aim of inflicting the most aggravation possible. It was Miranda’s duty, as the bigger woman, to rise above such things.

That the last time she didn’t had begun in much the same way did not escape her notice. A familiar feeling, being shoved roughly against a bulkhead by a furious, half-naked woman. Miranda took a moment to compose herself. _This_ time wouldn’t end in a humiliating lecture from Shepard.

“I’m sure I have no idea to what you are referring, Jack.”

Jack was clearly fresh from the medbay, a few dull medi-gel patches still visible on her skin, hatching the bold lines of her tattoos. Miranda could only guess at her discharge instructions, but she was reasonably certain that Dr. Chakwas hadn’t cleared her for assaulting her crew mates minutes after release.

“You know what I’m talking about. Back on the planet. Why did you come after me?”

It was a question for which Miranda had many ready answers. Mission readiness, crew morale, a disinterest in wasting resources. A deep personal respect for Shepard, and her own promise of civility in all matters pertaining to Jack. Any one of those answers would do, but in the moment, her lips stayed closed. In truth, she hadn’t considered any of those things before making that blind leap off the disintegrating scaffolding. It had cost her a rolled ankle and her favorite pistol, but the team had returned from their operation still in the company of one foul-mouthed biotic, albeit in less than perfect condition.

Jack was a storm a moment from landfall, electric and threatening, breath coming in angry pants that washed across Miranda’s face. She pressed inward, her hands planted on either side of Miranda’s head. Her eyes scanned her face, looking for something, an answer that seemed to satisfy her too well for comfort when she landed on it.

“So let’s fucking do it, then.”

“Pardon?”

“ _This_.” She moved closer, past threat, straps and buckles and hard lines connecting. One knee thudding against the bulkhead, the other shoved casually, carelessly between Miranda’s own. “I get it now. You want a piece of my ass.”

“Believe me, there is not one thing further from my mind.”

How she gloated now, convinced she’d figured out the game. Jack leaned forward, teeth bared and eyes sharp.

“You want me. Must drive you crazy, all that Cerberus paperwork. Telling them about every move I make when all you really want is the biggest, baddest bitch on this ship to bend you over your fancy desk there and eat you out until you scream.” She punctuated her words with jerks of her hips, grinding her thigh roughly between Miranda’s legs. Miranda stifled a moan, barely.

“I hate you, Jack. For the record, that is both a professional and personal opinion.”

“And you still want to screw me. That’s fucked up, princess.”

Oh, there was a thrill of sick satisfaction in the way Jack hissed when she shoved her away, one hand placed just a bit too close to a medi-gel patch. 

You don’t lose the high ground when you’re the one to take it. Jack kissed with teeth, wet and hard, and her hand tangled into Miranda’s hair, twisting, tugging, pulling. Little points of pain along Miranda’s scalp, a sharp line where Jack’s teeth sunk into her her lower lip and her own hands, perfectly manicured nails scratching along Jack’s bare ribs, urging her on.

She wanted to fuck Jack, or she wanted to kill her. Miranda didn’t know which, and she suspected that Jack would consider either a victory.

They pushed and shoved, jostling their way to the rear of Miranda’s quarters. Sloppy, undignified kisses, months of frustration poured into each other’s mouths, dug finger by finger into each other’s hips.

Leather belts and heavy pants hit the floor with a thump as she unfastened her own uniform. In another tryst, this would be its own languid seduction, the careful revelation of one perfect breast, the torturous roll of the skin-tight leggings down her thighs. Like unwrapping a gift. 

Not now, not in this room. Not with this woman.

Jack still had a distinct advantage, having begun already much closer to nudity. By the time Miranda turned, her uniform carefully folded and put aside, Jack had claimed the bed, lean limbs spread wide. Her hand rubbed lazily between her legs. Lax, loose, only her eyes still hard. Watching. Waiting.

Miranda felt the rising charge before Jack flared, already throwing up a barrier to block the biotic pull snapped toward her. She discharged in motion, twisting away from the residual field disruption as she lunged forward, slamming herself down into the other woman.

“ _Are you insane?_ Do you want to bring Shepard down here?”

“You want her to watch?” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Does that get you wet? Freak.”

Miranda rammed her hand into the pillows next to Jack’s head, hard, but she’d already scented it, that blood on the wind. She grinned up at her, feral and sharp.

“Or the boss man, huh? Bet he watches everything that goes on in here.”

“ _No biotics_.”

“Don’t need ‘em,” Jack spat back, bucking her hips to unbalance Miranda. Quicker than she could react, Jack was out from under her, wrenching her arm up and back as she fell forward, into the pillows. Jack pressed her advantage for a moment, pushing just a little harder as pain bloomed up Miranda’s arm. Thin fingers wove through her hair, tugging upward until Miranda followed, arching back. 

Non-verbal communication, it would seem, was going to be the standard. Unexpected, a distant part of her brain observed. A new line in the profile. Jack pulled again, shoving a knee between Miranda’s thighs until she caught her meaning and spread them. Wide as she could, laid out on her belly with Jack twisting her upward, until Jack seemed satisfied and let go of her arm. With little preamble, she slid her newly freed hand up Miranda’s thigh, cupping her sex and giving it a few slow, rough strokes. Jack laughed, her hand sliding smoothly through Miranda’s folds.

“You’re so fucking wet. I knew the ice queen thing was an act.”

Another strong tug on her hair and Jack slid two fingers into her, slowly thrusting. A lazy pattern, gentle, random, as if she were toying with her. Waiting, Miranda realized. Waiting for her to ask. Not out of consideration, of course, but for the petty joy of her debasement.

“More.”

Jack leaned over her back, lips barely brushing her ear as Miranda strained further upward, muscles burning, a singing ache.

“More what?”

Miranda would give it to her, just to get what she needed. She blew a hank of hair away from her face, already gone limp and sweat stuck.

“I want more,” she said, and then, just for the petty joy, “Fuck me like you actually _mean it_.”

Evidently, good enough for Jack, who pulled back only to add another finger. Full now, Jack’s fingers sliding inside. No teasing now but intent, aggression, strong fingers angled just right to make her moan, thrusting in and out at a pace Miranda couldn’t follow, only hope to withstand.

Jack released her hair at some point, though Miranda was only aware of the change when she felt the hand cup her ass, squeeze until she whimpered and pushed back. She was spread open, thighs slick and wet and shaking as Jack thrust her fingers, in and out too hard, too fast. There was no build, no steady climb toward a peak; only the deafening buzz of her entire body, too much, too loud. 

The hand became an anchor, a ground, five points of painful pressure kneading, digging into her flesh as it pushed and pulled, dragged her hips in rocking, thrusting counterpoint to the fingers inside her. Even with her head half-buried in a pillow now, Miranda could hear it, the wet sounds as Jack fucked her, Jack’s heavy breathing. Over it all, the thunder booming, rolling in her ears as everything went bright, all at once.

Miranda came. She came and came, flooded with warmth, gasping half-sobs into the pillow. Still Jack kept going, rocking her fingers in and out until Miranda hissed and squirmed at the overstimulation. She reached back and swatted blindly at Jack until the maddening hand withdrew, wiping very deliberately along the curve of her lower back, palm and fingers leaving a trail that cooled quickly in the air of her quarters.

_Delightful._

“Shit. Shit.” Jack gasped behind her, and Miranda turned to watch as she shoved a hand between her legs, no gentler with her own flesh than she’d been with Miranda’s. Her eyes were closed, screwed shut as she worked at her clit, hips jerking in time. “Shit, shit,” she chanted under her breath.

Miranda wondered if she even knew she was speaking. Her own body was weighted with pleasure, heavy, gorged on it until she could barely contain it within her skin. She felt everything, got lost in every detail, the way her breasts gently swayed back and forth and the fine weave of the bedlinen under her knees as she crawled slowly across the bed. Jack’s smooth skin under her hand as she gripped her thigh, the faint salt taste of her sweat as she dipped her mouth to the curve of Jack’s breast. The sound she made when Miranda enveloped her nipple and sucked, hard.

The reaction was instantaneous, Jack’s arm looping around the back of her neck and holding her close, pressing her into her breast. The _oh_ was a small, strained thing, so quiet that Miranda raised her eyes to Jack’s face in an echo of battlefield instinct, checking for distress. Instead, she found Jack staring down at her, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, swallowing thickly as Miranda pulled again, and then once more.

Reaching up, then, to cup Jack’s breast in a firm hand as she drew the nipple in more deeply. Lips and tongue and suction drew strangled moans and Jack’s hips now rocked in earnest, in pace with Miranda’s mouth. She drove her through it relentlessly, a thrill of triumph at every missed breath, every unconscious, rhythmic tightening of the strong thigh beneath her hand. Through it all, she never lowered her eyes, never broke gaze until Jack broke first, squeezing her eyes shut as her head tilted back, every muscle tensing.

Jack may have fucked Miranda first, but Jack wasn’t built for endurance. She was flash and fury. It was all in the profile, Miranda had written the conclusion herself. Clearly and succinctly, without wondering, as she did now, how long Jack could bear it if she traced her tongue across the web of her tattoos. Whether Jack would break quickly, as she moved from instep to ankle, or whether she’d hold even as Miranda ghosted her lips over her hipbone. Whether Miranda’s slow progress would reach her breast before Jack snapped, all that flash and fury, held her down between her thighs and shoved her mouth into her-

She came silently. Miranda would have predicted invective, something filthy shouted at a volume such that the crew currently in the mess would avoid eye contact for weeks, but Jack just exhaled, shuddering, little tremors running under Miranda’s fingers. She did not open her eyes for some time, and when she did, wetness glistened at the corners.

As unexpected as Miranda found Jack’s reaction, it was clear to her that Jack found it even more so. She had no smart remark, no post-orgasmic insult to add to the silence, just an unreadable look as she slid off the bed. Miranda sat back on her heels, suddenly feeling an absurd discomfort in her own nudity as Jack tugged on her pants, her back turned. Shoulders drawn inward, smaller when she walked out the door than when she’d stormed inside. 

She didn’t look back.

_What the fuck was that?_

Here, in this moment, the largesse of orgasm faded, soiled linens cooling underneath her folded legs - Miranda sought the clarity of the comedown and found nothing. Not readiness, no, not morale or resources; neither respect nor civility.

Just a rolled ankle and a requisition for a new pistol on her desk, yet to be filed.


End file.
